CXIII.IN THE SCHELDT.
I.
We lay in the dreary Scheldt all night
With a bleak south-wester blowing,
And we talked of ghosts by the fitful light
Of the wood-fire redly glowing.
II.
I could not sleep, for very deep
The words sank in my spirit;
And at that hour tales had power
Above their own true merit
III.
The waves were high on the sandbanks nigh,
And the dismal river flowing,
And a muttering sound from the swampy ground,
Like the murmur of babes, was blowing;
And the only mirth of the household earth
Were the cocks in Flushing crowing.
IV.
I cannot boast that a white wan ghost
To me seems an idle error;
For deep in me, as the deep, deep sea
Are the fountains of holy terror.
V.
I knew when I heard the stormy bird
All round about us crying,
That spirits strong were riding along
To the beds of sinners dying.
VI.
O Angels bright! what an angry night
Is this for the powers of evil;
And thousands there, in the blustering air,
Are keeping unholy revel.
VII.
The good might cross themselves for fear,
As they heard the seabirds yelling,
And the chattering voicelike sounds that came
On the breath of the tempest swelling.
VIII.
Though well they know good Angels go
The Saints from harm to cover,
And by their beds around their heads
With wings of glory hover.
IX.
O may they keep us in our sleep
To-night on this savage river,
And, for their Master's sake, our souls
From the spirits of ill deliver!
